Corsair (19 page)

“Why there?” a sailor called. “They may be neutral, but they ain’t always been our friends. I’ve seen Linyati ships sailin’ in and out of their ports.”

“Better there, for the moment, than Ticao,” Gareth said. “As we’ve talked about before, nobody knows what King Alfieri will think when we come sailing up the Nalta.

“I’d rather keep our loot offshore until we know. If all goes well, then we can bring it upriver for marketing.”

“I heard your uncle or brother or such is a Merchant Prince,” a sailor said. “No doubt he’ll be the one to handle the matter.

“At a goodly profit.”

Gareth held back anger. “I’ve made, and will make, no deals with anyone you men don’t approve. I’ll let my uncle in on the bidding, unless the Company votes no.

“Is there anything the matter with that?”

The sailor muttered, but turned away.

• • •

Trade items that went quickly were Luynes’s cutlasses, muskets, and “cutting knives,” but Gareth insisted these wouldn’t go for gold or silk, but rather on a two- or three-one basis for quality arms, intended for his present and future crews.

Some of them he refused to trade, having other plans for them.

• • •

Gareth sat in the
Steadfast
’s longboat looking critically at his ship as it floated in the green, clear waters of the bay. Froln and Galf sat beside him.

“Seems she’s a bit bow-down,” he said.

“She is, sir,” Galf said. “Those demi-cannon are heavy. I moved as much ballast as I dared to the stern, but she still’s got a tilt to her.”

“She’ll sail awkward an’ heavy ‘gainst a headwind,” Froln said. “No question. And fall off quick.”

“I’d guess she could hold no closer than, what, six points off the bow, trying to beat to windward?” Gareth said.

“If that,” Galf said.

“Awkward,” Froln repeated.

“Very well,” Gareth said. “My plan doesn’t work.” He’d wanted to move long-range guns into the bows of his ships, so he could fight the way he’d taken on the slave ship, instead of the ship- and man-wrecking normal broadside to broadside style.

“Or, anyway it doesn’t work with the size of the guns we’ve got,” he went on. “We need smaller, lighter cannon. Those two heavy falconets we put in the
Goodhope
seem suitable.”

“Pity no one out here wants to trade for guns very badly.”

Froln laughed.

“An’ you’re surprised, Skipper, in these nice, calm, peaceful waters?”

Gareth grinned.

“No. No, I’m not. We don’t have any to spare, ourselves. Maybe we’ll try this setup again, when we’re back in Ticao and there’s armories to be called on.”

• • •

Unlike other pirate officers, who wore a mixture of civilian finery and seaman’s garb, this man wore what could have been a uniform, in another time and clime. His red coat was long, split at the back, with gold buttons. His breeches were black, and appeared to have been washed in the last day or so. He wore a ruffled shirt, and a long dirk on one side of his belt, a thin-bladed rapier on the other. He was bareheaded, and fine, carefully brushed brown hair swept almost to his waist.

He sat, unbidden, at the chair in the trading booth.

“Captain Radnor,” he said. “I’m Captain Ozerov, of the
Naijak.
Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“Not of you, sir,” Gareth said politely. “But I certainly know your ship. Well kept, sir, as if it was fresh from the shipyard.”

“I believe in discipline,” Ozerov said, “and its first part is cleanliness.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Gareth said. “You’re from Juterbog, by your name?”

“Once, a long time ago. Now I work for myself, or, from time to time, those who wish my services.”

“How may I be of service to you?”

“Those men of Kashi that you seized,” Ozerov said. “I understand you have the noble intent of returning them to their jungles?”

“Such was the vote of my Company.”

“I understand it wasn’t unanimous.”

“No,” Gareth admitted. “There were those who see such men as profit.”

“You may count me among them,” Ozerov said. “As well as my master, in Saros. We have done very well by ourselves not only sailing with the Brethren but, from time to time, purchasing slaves for those civilized nations who keep to the old ways.

“My master, or, more correctly the man whose gold I take, is a most powerful lord, and, since I have been told you and your men largely hail from that land, it might be advantageous to you to do business with me.

“Not just now, in the increased weight of your purse, but in gaining influence with that powerful lord when you return home to Saros, if you plan such, and hope to be taken as a bold privateer rather than a hangable pirate.”

“I would be delighted to be seen as such,” Gareth said. “Might I ask the name of this great lord you serve?”

“His name is Quindolphin.”

Gareth’s bellowed laughter brought the puppy sleeping by his feet in the sand up with a yelp, and a few people in the marketplace looked over in curiosity.

“I fail to see your amusement at the mention of such a great man,” Ozerov said, his tone menacing.

“My apologies to you, sir,” Gareth said. “You could not have known that Lord Quindolphin tried to have me executed for a prank I pulled as a boy, and has since had me hunted across Ticao by troops of his men. Not long before we mailed, his own son tried to murder me.

“I’m sorry, Captain Ozerov, but not only do I not wish to soil my name, my men’s name, and the name of my country by dealing in humanity, but I truly prize, especially now, learning the source of his wealth, having the unspeakable Quindolphin as my enemy.”

He rose, bowed.

“Thank you, however, Captain Ozerov, for coming to me, even in your misapprehension.”

Gareth expected Ozerov to be angry, but the slender man considered Radnor thoughtfully, then stood, returned the bow, and walked away, without response.

Gareth watched him go, and in spite of the midday heat, felt a chill.

• • •

The torches flared into the night, and the marketplace rocked with laughter and music.

As usual, Gareth sat to one side, watching the merriment. He’d danced a couple of dances, learning the wild stamping style of the islanders, for politeness, then gone to the sidelines.

He patted back a yawn, wishing that he liked the taste of brandy better, for it certainly enlivened a party, and made the time pass less quickly.

Gareth decided as soon as this song was finished he’d make his way out, back to the
Steadfast.
He’d been talking to the men of Kashi, trying to decide on a proper course and landing place for the
Freedom.

It pleased him to make careful notes on the pristine blankness of his charts, and he wondered why his country didn’t have ships that went out to chart empty seas and lands, instead of leaving matters to merchants and brigands like himself.

A man came out of the shadows, a slight figure behind him. Gareth recognized Captain Ozerov, and his companion the woman named Irina.

He had time to get to his feet, begin a bow, when Ozerov slapped him abruptly, almost knocking him down.

Gareth staggered, recovered.

A woman screamed, a man shouted, and the music broke off into raggedness.

Before Gareth could say anything, Ozerov said, in a loud voice:

“You have offended the dignity of this woman, whom I choose to defend, and I call you to answer that offense in blood.”

A sailor somewhere roared laughter, shouted, “Din’t know th’ slut had any dign’ty. Me an’ two others screwed her lights out two nights runnin’.”

Ozerov pretended not to notice. Gareth wondered why the farce with Irina, then remembered Dafflemere’s cautions about violence on the island, and that a fair duel would be judged by the Brethren.

No doubt defending someone’s honor, no matter how slight, would be considered fair.

And of course, if Ozerov killed Gareth, he could name a pretty figure from Lord Quindolphin.

“As the challenged party,” Gareth said, “I accept, of course.”

“Name your seconds.”

That gave Gareth an idea. He smelled drink on Ozerov’s breath, and that could give him a slight edge.

“I need no seconds,” he said calmly. “We’ll fight now. Here.”

Ozerov blinked, recovered.

“Very well,” he said, but licked his lips. “Set your conditions.”

Gareth thought of his own skill with the blade, guessed the rapier and dagger Ozerov carried would be the weapons he was most skilled with.

“Pistols,” he said. “At the water’s edge, with torches to give us light for the killing.”

Gareth shivered in the breeze from the lagoon, even though the night was most balmy.

Tehidy handed him a single-barreled pistol.

“It’s fully charged, and I made sure the ball is perfect.”

“Thank you, Thom.”

“I know you’ll win,” Tehidy said. “But if not …”

“First, have either you or Knoll stand for captain as my replacement. Froln’s a good man, but I doubt his judgment. As for me, I’m no gentleman,” Gareth said. “Wait until you get a chance and arrange an accident for the good Captain Ozerov that you won’t get blamed for, if you can.”

“I can do that,” Tehidy said. “But don’t lose, godsdammit!”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

Strangely, Gareth felt icy calm, as he did before a battle.

Fifteen paces distant, Ozerov stood, talking to his second, who was also uniformed.

Dafflemere, who seemed to be the only visible form of the government of Freebooter’s Isle, stood a bit aside, holding a pistol in one hand. Two others were stuck in his sash.

“Gentlemen,” he called. “It is time. Seconds, stand away from your principals.”

The officer and Tehidy moved away.

“This is an argument,” Dafflemere said, “that I was told could only be settled in blood. Is this the case?”

Both Gareth and Ozerov said, “Yes.”

“Then I shall count three. At the end of that time, you may fire.

“I caution you, seconds, and any others: Do not interfere, or I’ll deal with you myself.” He motioned with his pistol.

“One …”

Gareth lifted his cocked pistol.

“Two …”

He breathed long, deep, held it.

“Three!”

His pistol came down, aimed, and fired as Ozerov’s gun went off. He felt the ball whip past his shoulder, saw Ozerov stagger and a stain appear, a graze on the outside of Ozerov’s thigh.

Tehidy and Ozerov’s second ran to their men.

“You hit him!” Tehidy said.

Gareth nodded.

“Blood has been drawn,” Dafflemere shouted. “Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” Gareth said calmly.

“And you, sir?”

“I am not,” Ozerov gritted. “Reload the damned pistols, and I’ll set matters right.”

“Seconds, you heard the captain’s wishes. The duel will go another exchange.”

Again the guns were loaded, and the seconds withdrew.

“Again, I shall count three,” Dafflemere said.

“One …”

Gareth breathed steadily, calmly.

“Two …”

He exhaled, held his breath.

“Three!”

Once more Ozerov pulled first. Gareth saw the plume of smoke, felt a dull thud against his upper chest, had a moment of wonderment that it didn’t hurt. He staggered, went to his knees.

He saw, through dimming vision, Ozerov whoop in joy, cast his pistol high in the air.

Gareth lifted his arm, lifted the pistol, heavier than lead, heavier than a cannon, and the first wave of pain hit, was pushed back. He extended his pistol at full arm’s length and touched the hair trigger.

The pistol bucked, spun out of his hand.

Ozerov contorted, and Gareth saw, above his eyebrows, a smash of red and a gout of tissue.

Then the torches went out, and there was nothing but blackness.

Gareth Radnor fell bonelessly forward into the sand.

Fever and its dreams struck Gareth almost immediately.

Sometimes they were pleasant — Gareth saw his parents alive and happy again; sailed into Ticao with a convoy of looted ships in his wake; danced at some great masked ball with Cosyra.

Sometimes they weren’t — he relived the day the Slavers came to his village, except this time they dragged his parents away in chains, while Gareth wallowed in muck at the shoreline, unable to rescue them; he sailed the
Steadfast
into the guns of some monstrous Linyati ship, eight impossible gundecks high; on a boyhood prank, Cosyra slipped and fell, screaming, from his grip, to her death.

Occasionally he swam up into consciousness, realized he was on a cot in the shade of a rough lean-to on the seaward side of the island, where the tradewinds could wash away his fever.

There was always someone there to nurse him — Labala, Thom Tehidy, Knoll, Dafflemere. There were women of the island as well, keeping watch through the night. The only one he recognized was, strangely, Irina, who was crying and saying something about she’d thought it was a joke. Once, Cosyra was there, and he knew that was another fever dream, and wept bitterly.

Then the pain would take him, as a shark takes its prey, pulling him back down into the depths, and he could hear himself moaning, no matter how hard he tried to hold back.

Then, one day, he woke, and his mind was clear and the pain was gone.

It was morning, he thought, and Labala was sitting beside him. The big man wasn’t looking at him, but was intently copying letters on a tablet, tongue clenched between his teeth in concentration.

“Some nurse you make,” Gareth managed, and the tablet spun across the lean-to.

“You live!”

“I think so.”

Gareth tried to sit up, and his arm went from under him, and he realized how weak he was.

“How long have I been no better than a lump?”

“Almost a month,” Labala said. “Here. Drink some of this.”

“This” was a fruit concoction, cooled in a gourd.

“Thanks.” Gareth sank back down.

“What have I missed?”

Labala grunted. “And I thought I was all ready, standing by with all the news, waiting for you to come back, and now everything’s fluttering about in my head.